Radio: Flying without wings – will Nicky Byrne help 2FM take off?

For anyone with an aversion to boybands, it is a cruel irony. After their seemingly endless domination of radio playlists, Westlife's break-up a couple of years ago has not provided any relief from their reign over the airwaves. The band may no longer be churning out the hits, but their ubiquity on the radio has if anything increased, as The Nicky Byrne Show (2FM, weekdays) testifies.

But if the prospect of the Westlife alumnus hosting a show on national radio will fill some with dread, it’s a more apt use of the erstwhile vocalist’s talents. While his singing abilities may be characterised as adequate – at least as suggested by his group’s back-catalogue of insipid cover versions – Byrne seems a natural when it comes to the lingua franca of mainstream pop jocks: inane patter.

That is not to say that Byrne fails as a presenter. He is, on the contrary, an instantly likable presence, his easy confidence and enthusiasm bolstered by a cheeky charm that finds full expression in his exchanges with his equally animated sidekick Jenny Greene. One suspects that Greene, a longtime 2FM presenter, may have been brought in to act as the seasoned veteran to Byrne's rookie, but the pair bounce off each other as equals from the off. On Monday's inaugural edition, he gently ribs her, saying she has applied fake tan for the occasion, only for her to shoot back that she put it on for a television gig: "Don't flatter yourself."

But if the chemistry is effortless, the content is untaxing. An interview with English television presenter Dermot O'Leary is such softball celebrity fluff that it makes Hello! magazine seem like the Economist , throwing up such gossipy nuggets as O'Leary's fondness for Irish ice-lollies and the origin of his X Factor catchphrase. As appealing as Byrne's chirpy personality is, it takes more than matey banter with celeb pals to sustain a daily three-hour programme.

In fairness, the presenters spend much of their time cueing up a soundtrack of slick, auto-tuned pop, the unvarying nature of which underlines 2FM’s increasingly craven quest to win over younger listeners. There are also signs that Byrne has a wry side, most notably in the form of the show’s “swear it again” box, into which he and Greene put money every time the words “Westlife” or “Louis Walsh” are mentioned. It’s the kind of irreverent edge that Byrne needs to cultivate if his radio career is to thrive after the novelty of a pop star presenter wears off. Still, he didn’t play any Westlife records, which is probably a start.

There are times on Sunday With Miriam (RTÉ Radio 1, weekdays) when Miriam O'Callaghan sounds like she would be more at home in the trivial environs of 2FM, so vacuously upbeat are some of her questions. Talking to the model Jerry Hall, the presenter opines that her guest seems very content in her life, a deft feint before landing the killer punch: "Do you wake up happy every morning?" ("No, sometimes I have a hangover," Hall replies wickedly.)

Even when the conversation turns to more substantial matters, O’Callaghan seems prone to platitudes. Asked whether she is a feminist, Hall states that “in my business, women earn more”. O’Callaghan’s response, “Ultimately, that’s what feminism is about,” seems like a disappointing assent to a trite assertion, even more so after her guest adds: “Feminism is a bum deal”.

But though the programme is dotted with touchy-feely moments, O’Callaghan also shows her comfort in dealing with thornier issues, as one might expect from a current affairs presenter. She talks to Jimmy Guerin, brother of the late Veronica Guerin, getting his views on the shooting of John Gilligan, who was acquitted of the journalist’s murder. “It would be wrong to gloat,” says Guerin, “but it would be hypocritical of me to say I was upset when I heard the news.” Not the kind of sentiment associated with the Sabbath, but it made for a bracing item.

The interview with former IRA hunger striker Tommy McKearney was even more memorable, a discomforting mix of thoughtfulness, honesty and self-serving dogma. McKearney was forthright about taking up arms in the 1970s, but more evasive about the consequences of his actions. Asked if he thought about the family of the UDR corporal he was convicted of murdering, he said he preferred to think of all the families bereaved by the conflict. “I don’t look lightly upon the taking of human life in civil conflict, but we look at them all in a holistic analysis,” he said, making the horror of the Troubles sound like a yoga session.

But as O’Callaghan typically sought out the emotional element to his story, McKearney betrayed a more vulnerable side. He admitted feeling some responsibility for the fate of two younger brothers who were killed in the IRA. (Another was murdered by loyalist paramilitaries.) When talk turned to his mother, who is still alive, he sounded unsure for the first time: “I ask myself where she drew the strength.”

There was the odd bum note, as when O’Callaghan asked her guest if he worried about having to atone “when you meet your maker”, only for him to reply he was an atheist. But it was a remarkable encounter, the presenter’s ostensibly soft approach only emphasising McKearney’s harder edges. Sometimes, fuzzy warmth gets better results than playing it cool.

Moment of the week: Tubridy goes a bit grumpy
As 2FM scrambles to reinvent itself as a hyperactive teen station, there are signs that Ryan Tubridy (2FM, weekdays) feels out of step. On Monday, as Tara Loughrey-Grant hosted a new hourly bulletin of entertainment gossip, the presenter sounded by turns bemused and scornful. "It's too exciting for me, I don't know where to begin," he cracked. Tubridy continued in the same vein as the bulletin ended. "And so it begins. That is a taste of the future, friends, that is how it is going to be working here on 2FM." And so RTÉ's young fogey officially became a grumpy old man.

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